Manwhore +1

  I hear the guys down on the lake daring him to take out his Jet Ski and race them. They’re boasting quite loudly that they’re going to kick his ass this time. “It’s long due, you fucking bastard!”

  In reply to that, Saint lets go a low, throaty laugh, and he yells down at them, “Nah, I’m with a friend today!”

  “Lady friend or lady friends?” they bait. But Saint doesn’t bite, and I hear the zoom of Jet Ski motors as they leave.

  Barefoot, I kind of stand a few feet away, not knowing what to say. Every muscle on his back and shoulders is visible through the stretch of his shirt as Malcolm jerks a hand over his hair and then he pulls out his phone, starts dabbling.

  “Do you know everyone on the lake?”

  When he hears my voice, he turns, and the smile he’s wearing fades. There’s a breeze and I hate that my nipples are quick to scream, We’re cold!

  I rub my arm and he says, lowering his body sideways onto a nearby chaise, “Come sit.”

  He pats the space beside him, and though he looks in control, I see him inhale, very slowly and very deeply. I take the chaise next to his instead, smiling and feeling shy.

  “This is . . . well, I guess you bought me this. Thank you.”

  He doesn’t look at the bikini; he’s looking at my face, almost as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re welcome.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and his voice drops a decibel. “You’re making my mouth water.”

  I stare at his sparkling green eyes, at his seductive smile, not knowing what to say.

  A nervous laugh leaves me.

  But he just stares, his extremely intense attention homed in on me. Water laps against the boat as the Chicago wind does its thing.

  “Do you believe your father’s interest in Edge is purely business?” I ask him, remembering the reporter we just encountered.

  “He’s competitive. I’m like him in that respect.” His lips curl in a sneer as he turns to contemplate the lake water.

  “He’s competing against . . .”

  “Me.”

  “Goading you?”

  “Using you.” He levels his stare on me. “He sees you as my weakness. He’s right. He’s waiting to see if I rise to the challenge. He’s been wanting to show me he still has power over me for years.”

  Silence.

  The heavy kind that weighs on your heart.

  “After Mother died, I broke free of him. Moved out, left the family business. I was old enough to take my stock. I sold my shares to his worst enemy, forced him into bed with the last man he wanted there.” He snarls and laughs, his eyes gleaming ruthlessly now. “Payback for all the times he cheated on my mother.”

  I wait with bated breath for him to tell me more, and it doesn’t take him long. It sounds as if he’s speaking about someone else, he’s that distanced from his father.

  My father died; his father is alive, but somehow it feels as if we both grew up without one.

  “With that money, I started my empire. I supposed he thought I’d lose it all on whores and Vegas. I don’t need to pay women to be with me. And I have better sense than Vegas.” He smirks proudly at that. “No one has ever underestimated me like my father.”

  “What happened to the family business?”

  “Weakened. He lost control of his own board. Had to buy back his own stock to recoup the majority of his business. By then he’d formed a bad reputation. Not paying suppliers. He couldn’t stand growing weaker while his weak kid grew better and stronger.”

  His smile is brief and regretful.

  “I’m over it, but he’s never backed off from trying to step on my heels. For years I’ve been weeding out his hired snoops, who are rabid to know what I’m after next.” He looks fondly at me and winks. “I move too fast for him. But damn me if I shouldn’t have seen this coming after . . .” He trails off.

  I ache in my ribs, my chest, my stomach. “I’m sorry, Malcolm.”

  “Edge is worthless to him without you. He’s testing me out to see how much I care.”

  “But we’re not formally together. After what happened, why would he think you cared?”

  “Because I do.” His green eyes flash almost violently, hot and fast. “I just do.” And then, a low, amused laugh follows when I just stare at him stupidly. “Rachel, it’s obvious.”

  He drags a hand through his hair, looking away thoughtfully while shocking me. No. Stunning me.

  “Cathy and the girls would share looks when I scheduled an appointment with you. Otis would get a look on his face when I’d ask him to pick you up. Roth and Carmichael still won’t let me hear the end of it. People who don’t know me at all speculated about you and me. It’s very obvious.”

  “What’s obvious?”

  He shoots me a look, then his lips curl a little and he runs his knuckles down my jawline. “That I’m into you.”

  He touches his thumb to my chin and there are dozens of hot, tangled sensations all over me.

  “I swear, those looks you give me, Rachel,” he murmurs under his breath.

  “What looks?” I laugh, flustered. We’re so relaxed, bantering; I missed this so much. The way his eyes look at me, openly amused. There’s something unguarded and warm in his humor. It’s enchanting because he’s always so in control at work.

  “This one.” His thumbs brush over the outside corners of my eyes. “This one.” He uses his thumbs to shape a smile on my lips, his green eyes both humorous and tender. “This one,” he adds huskily, brushing his thumb over a frown on my forehead. “And the one that tells me you want me here.” He cups my sex, then brings his dark head close to my ear. “The one that says you’re scared and want to be saved. And the one when you’re happy, as if I gave you the world, like when I bought you lingerie.”

  “Oh, I bet you loved that last one, hmm? You like the ones that cater to your ego best?” I bring my hand up to stifle my laugh. “The ones that go straight to here.” I then give a tap to his head, and he’s just smiling.

  “Do you know,” I stroke a hand aimlessly up and down his abs, his pecs, “the story of Psyche and Cupid?”

  He cocks an amused eyebrow.

  “Psyche’s beauty compelled men to worship her, incurring Venus’s wrath, and Venus commissioned Cupid to enact her revenge. But upon seeing her, Cupid accidentally pricked himself with his own arrow and fell in love with Psyche, so he hatched a plan to make her his wife. Now, Psyche believed she was fated to marry a monster, and when Cupid himself told her not to look at him, she was pretty worried about who he was. She didn’t trust what she couldn’t see, and one day, encouraged by her jealous sisters to kill him, she dared to look upon him. And he was so beautiful . . . her Cupid . . .” I blush. “So just when she realized he wasn’t the monster she thought he was, she lost him. Cupid told her that love couldn’t dwell with suspicion, and he left her.” I blush more.

  “Go on.” He leans back, paying the kind of attention to me that only he does, intense and a little bit nerve-racking.

  “Then Psyche realized she had to return to serve Venus, who put her through terrible trials. But Cupid started interfering—he rescued Psyche from a deep sleep and finally made her his wife.”

  His laugh is slow and marvelous, catching.

  “Little one, I can’t possibly be Cupid in that story.”

  When he lifts his brows in a dare, I realize, he is Cupid to me, mischievous and conniving, but demanding loyalty when he unexpectedly falls for Psyche.

  But Saint doesn’t want to be Cupid. He shoots me a look that warns me what will happen if he is. Delicious sex torture?

  Oh god.

  I wonder how stupid I might have sounded, basically assuming that he loved me. Stupid Rachel.

  “Well, your true form, Hades,” I improvise, “stole Persephone and took her to the underworld, where he abused her sexually before they ended up falling in love. You know what always puzzles me?” I add.

  “What?” His eyes gleam like glassy volcanic rock.
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  “Zeus, the most powerful ‘good’ god, was always having affairs on his wife. The ‘bad’ god, Hades, was pretty much obsessed with Persephone, and seemed far more in love with her than Zeus was with his wife. For all his sins, Hades was so much more devoted. I think . . . there’s always something beautiful breeding in the darkness and pain.”

  “Is there?” he asks quietly.

  I nod soberly. “So no, you’re not Cupid in that story, I guess.” Then I tease, “You’re Zeus and Hades. A saint here,” I touch his heart, “and a sinner here,” I touch his thickening erection.

  He laughs softly and pulls me to his chaise, and we lie there, soaking up the sun in silence.

  The lake is mostly calm, save for a few Jet Skis passing by, an occasional boat. I think about his father, how calm and rational Malcolm has been throughout this.

  “You won’t let him goad you into doing anything reckless . . . will you?”

  He laughs. “I’m over reckless.” He shifts his shoulders so he can look at me. “But on my word, he won’t be hurting you. Slowly, deliberately, very subtly, I’ll crush him if he comes near you.”

  “He won’t come near me. I’ll leave before then.”

  He cups my face in a gesture of male gratitude, and asks, “How are you going to introduce me to your mother?”

  I smile. “She already knows you’re not saintly at all,” I tease.

  He looks at me quietly, the silence stretching.

  “She’s worried,” I admit.

  “Is she?”

  “She thinks you’re too worldly.”

  “That’s a negative against me?”

  “And too rich.”

  “Really now?” His brows slant thoughtfully.

  “She’s worried you’re a player and that you won’t be able to help yourself and play with me.”

  His eyebrows furrow even more. “Well, it won’t be the first time I’m underestimated.”

  “But she likes you! It’s just that . . . she’s been a victim of what she’s heard. She was rooting for us but it was hard to hide from her that I was so . . . sad.”

  He tips my head back; his eyes darken. “You put yourself there. Not me.”

  I drop my eyes. “I know. Are you sure you want to? Go?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Yeah, I want to.” He moves his hand up to play with a little tendril of hair by my ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m not a saint. But you, Rachel . . .” He trails off as though searching for words.

  “I’m not a saint either.” I’m laughing at that. “I’m a sinner,” I assure him; then I smirk a little and playfully push at his shoulder with the heel of my palm. “And you’re my Sin.”

  He catches my wrist in his grip, and my laugh fades as he pulls me closer.

  The glow of lust in his eyes as he studies me opens up a painful ache in my midsection. I am rabid for him. He’s my Achilles’ heel, the greatest pleasures in my life somehow now tied to his smiles. And right now, I quiver with the knowledge that he wants me.

  So many years of being practical, and now I feel my romantic side taking over. I’ve spent every night for almost the past month reliving the ways he’s spoken to me, looked at me. He is unattainable, and yet he’s all my fantasies, all my dreams, put into one single human being, with warm flesh and a thudding heart and a beautiful face with a mouthwateringly muscled body.

  His expression is fully relaxed now, his lips wearing just the hint of a smile as he asks, “Are you hungry?”

  For you, I think, but I shake my head no.

  He gets to his feet, pours us some wine and pops a cherry into his mouth. He knots the stem and shows me his perfect knot. “You ever do that?” His deep voice as he sits near me warms me up.

  “It means you’re good with your tongue.”

  His gentle laugh ripples through the air, and oh, I feel his smile between my ribs, between my legs.

  He heads back to the table. Joining him by the little fruit buffet, I eat a cherry, put aside the seed, and try to knot the stem. He eats another while he watches. After a minute, I give up and shake my head, taking the straight stem out of my mouth and showing him.

  “Nope,” I confirm, laughing.

  He just smiles down at me, his voice low and husky. “Nobody ever gets it right the first time.”

  He grabs another one and knots it again, moving his tongue slowly inside his mouth in a way that causes all kinds of lusty thoughts to run through me. There’s a curious swooping pull to my insides as I watch him do it, and when his lips curl upward as he gazes at me, the swooping is followed by a shock wave that rocks me.

  Before I can take another one, he grabs my wrist, his other hand lifting to rest on my face. He brushes my lips with the pad of his thumb. I shiver involuntarily.

  I’m entranced by the thoughtfulness on his face as he draws my cheek to his chest and caresses my hair. We stay like that. The very air over the water seems electrified. He runs his hand through my hair and the sensation is so sweet and so intoxicating, I can’t move.

  He obviously knows he affects me. But he seems affected too, his body stone-like and buzzing with tension.

  As if getting control of himself, he peers down at me. “Do you want me to teach you how to knot one up? Or want a dip in the water?”

  I glance at the cherries, and his lips curl. My toes curl in response. Reaching out, he raises a cherry, dangling it from the stem.

  I ease down onto the chaise near the buffet table and start to feel warm from his body heat, suddenly so very near.

  He leans over, holding the cherry by the stem, and I part my lips and pluck it off. I bite into it with my molars and feel the cool juice slide down my throat. I’ve never been more aware of him watching me eat as I take the little seed out of my mouth and I set it on a small plate on the table.

  He sits beside me, his shoulder touching mine, his face looking down at me, and I swear the sun looks better on his face than in the sky.

  My lips part when he offers the stem, and I pull it into my mouth and give it a try. He bends his head closer to speak through the noise of the wind. “Curl it around your tongue.” His voice is absolutely low. “Like this.”

  He dips his head and before I know it, his lips connect with mine and his tongue is moving, guiding the cherry stem around mine sinuously, expertly knotting it in my mouth.

  When we separate, our eyes hold for the longest second as he pulls out the knotted stem from his mouth. Which he just took from mine. His lips curl as he sets it aside, his eyes smiling too when, gently, I feel the brush of his thumbs on my cheeks as he cups my face.

  “I know what else you twist around so easily,” I breathe.

  He stares deeply into me as he waits for more.

  “Me.”

  And then he’s not smiling anymore. And neither am I. A tremor runs through me as he ducks his head. And then, ohhhh. Ghost kiss. Against my mouth, he speaks, deep and gruff, “Do you want another cherry stem? Or do you want my tongue inside your mouth?”

  Immediately, I close my eyes and tip my head back.

  Another corner kiss.

  He’s breathing slowly but so deeply his chest expands, clearly fighting for control. And I want him to lose it. I want him to snap and kiss me, fuck me, love me.

  He caresses my cheek with the knuckle of his forefinger as he ducks his head again and this next kiss is so close to the center of my mouth, I can taste cherries on his lips.

  “Come here.” He reaches out and pulls me off the seat. He does it in one fluid move until I’m sitting on his hard lap, my legs draped to the side, and I struggle with a nervous laugh but ultimately fall still. Oh boy. It actually feels better every time. His arms around me. It makes me feel small in the best ways.

  I’m adjusting to the sensation of safety—a sensation I’d kill to feel for the rest of my life—when I see Saint look at me as if I’m the juiciest thing he’s ever seen.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he says quietly in my ear.

/>   He rubs a hand up and down my back. I do what he says, my arms trembling. Though we’re in the end of summer, it’s so cool today, the wind, but then he takes hold of both my hands at the back of his neck and moves them up and into his hair.

  My fingers bunch warm fistfuls instinctively as he curls a hand around my nape and pulls me finally to his mouth. When our lips connect, they’re already parted, and our tongues meet halfway as they search for each other.

  He caresses my back and then settles one strong hand on my hip, his fingers spreading out, toward my butt, while his thumb caresses the jutting hardness of my hipbone. And as his warm tongue keeps knotting me up tighter than the cherry stems, I forget everything else.

  That my name is Rachel Livingston and my career is in a jumble and I want my world to stand still.

  Right now I just want Saint’s tongue and I want the world to spin and spin and spin the way only he makes it do so.

  His hand slides down my thigh and grabs behind my knee and he slowly folds my leg, bringing it up and curling it around his hip.

  I shift my other leg to straddle him and his hand trails down the small of my back, then his fingers start sliding into my bikini. He cups my ass, pressing me to him as he kisses me. And all the time his tongue is grazing, playing, rubbing, tasting as his mouth moves on mine, devouring, taking—taking.

  The heat of our bodies could melt a glacier. His other hand slides into my hair, into my ponytail. He holds it in one big fist and leaves my mouth burning with fire when he edges away from my lips and plants kisses on my shoulders, neck, face.

  My hands chart their own journey, massaging down to his shoulders, but his fist keeps me from moving my head, so that he can come back to devour my mouth whenever he wants to. I’m gasping, breathless, as he raises his mouth from my neck and for three long heartbeats, looks heatedly into my eyes. I feel raw, vulnerable, and his eyes are stormy with lust but so clear, I’m afraid he sees me; sees he’s my one true weakness. And so I close my eyes and offer my lips.

  When his lips latch on to mine, his mouth is wetter and hotter, slower and firmer. I taste him back, feeling greedy and desperate as I slide my hands under his shirt, aching to feel his bare skin.